


Style of The Century

by KeyDog (BannedBloodOranges)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Admiral Archer's Prize Beagle, Can you believe I actually am not that much of fan of AOS?, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Humour, M/M, Mind melds, Or Pon Farr for the elderly, Poignant, Pon Farr, Some AU features, Sort Of, TOS all the way for this trooper, What’s a pon farr handjob between friends?, beagles, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 10:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannedBloodOranges/pseuds/KeyDog
Summary: He’s never been with a man, let alone a Vulcan old enough to remember the first contact. Despite experimentation being the style of the century, Scotty was a boring standard grade heterosexual and the most adventure he’d ever had was a fondle with a girl who’d sported a red nose and puffed praying mantis eyes and that was only cos she’d had the flu.Poor bloke deserves more than a slack handjob in the poorly heated pits of a Starfleet base.





	Style of The Century

**Author's Note:**

> I had an afternoon free and a drink. Of whiskey, believe or not, and this idea just bit me on the arse and refused to die, and now you all must suffer with me. Pure, rushed, unedited crack. Leave your standards at the door.  
I solemnly swear I will get back to my own projects. I promise.  
I own nothing, non-profit fun only.

It gets stuffy down here in this icebox, even for him. He’s an engineer, loves all the sweet aromas of oil and fuel and metallic paint. But they’ve had no ship outs for six months, and the climate is dark and rank and chewed even the smells he’d love under any other circumstance into a temple bangin’ migraine. He’s tinkered all that there is to tinker, watched _The Two Ronnies_ on his antique Netflix until the signal died, and played battleship with Keenser (and lost, and lost again.)

It might be his fault, maybe, that he’s stuck in an outpost in the arse end of nowhere, on an ice-packed planet hovering like a snowball in backwater Alpha Quadrant. It _could_ be, but he won’t admit it.

Nothin’ but a frozen tribble, Keenser (when he’s in a good mood, which is _never_, by the way) and an old as balls Vulcan for company.

The Vulcan is new.

He found him playing around with his transporter pods a few weeks back, banging in all codes and keys and Scotty had been cross. Or tried to be, but the fellow was so evasive and calm and smooth talkin’ and it was nice to have an intelligent brain to pick, even if it was one that possibly wandered in off a Vulcan care home (too bad what happened with Vulcan, and he did feel sorry.) So, he allowed the stranger to pop in and out, to fix things and borrow his materials and beat Keenser at Battleship, Scrabble, Chess and Cluedo.

In the incoming month, Selek (for that was his name, or so he said, but it didn't fit somehow, in Scotty's humble opinion) began to interact less, and instead meditated in the lower rooms. For a week, neither Keenser nor Scotty saw their new friend, and that was a shame, cos' it just reminded Scotty of how god fuck boring it was in this place.

So when Scotty wakes from his one of his highly advantageous naps (read; a lie) to find Selek wandering around the base, ripping into himself with his nails, scattering protein nibs about the place like confetti, he knows something is wrong and worse than that, he cares enough to do something about it.

"Hey, hey!" he calls, and Selek freezes, turning slowly to stare. His skinny frame is rattling like a barn door in a blizzard, all fever and frenzy and Keenser clucks in the back of his throat like something is very, very funny.

* * *

It takes ages to sit Selek down, and even longer for Scotty to get anything out of him. He refuses the water, the not-quite stale protein nibs, even a knockback of scotch.

That's until a certain somebody finally decides to be helpful.

“It’s Pon Farr,” Keenser pipes up.

The Vulcan hisses as if struck and Scotty swivels so fast on his chair he’s amazed he doesn’t come off.

“The fuck is that?” He doesn’t mean to squeal. God knows what that word means, but he doesn’t like the sound of it.

“Mating circle.” Keenser’s tendril eyes shift from Scotty to Selek. “Every seven years they go bonkers. Gotta fuck or die.”

“Die? What…” Scotty falters when Selek releases a low, audible whine, like a dog itching to go outside. “How do you even know that?”

The little freak shrugs.

“Porn.”

“Po -!”

_“Please.”_ Selek looms over Scotty, who shrinks into his chair like a clam. He didn’t even hear him _move_. “I must…”

“Okay, okay,” Scotty tries to think fast. There’s a scamper of tiny feet and he catches Keenser by the collar just in time. Mutinous rascal. “Just sit down. I’ll be a uh…minute...”

Selek stands ramrod straight as Scotty inches past him. Even the puff of that mighty coat can’t hide the fact that – and he wasn’t even looking, god damn – he’s got more than a sonic screwdriver in his pocket.

Scotty hauls Keenser behind the boiler and gives him a good shake.

“Spill it!”

“Told you.” Keenser is nonplussed. “Fuck or die.”

“He’s a bit old, ain’t he?”

Keenser shrugs again.

“Vulcans live a long time.”

“What kind of porn ye be watching again?” Scotty shoots a glance behind him. Selek’s fingers are steepled under his chin and his foot is tapping repeatably, and he knows it's not to the tune of a _Spice Girls_ anthem.

“He’s old.” Keenser taps Scotty’s nose. He swats him away. “Might not need the “fuck part.”

“For god’s sake…” Scotty rubs his eyes, tugs at his hair. “Can’t he just do it the old-fashioned way? I have some data banks around here, with all the _material_ to give a wee bit of help in that area…”

“Doesn’t work like that,” declares Keenser, helpful as always.

“I can confirm that it doesn’t,” comes a hoarse, thick voice behind him and Scotty jumps, releasing Keenser.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” the little shit sniggers, and he’s off into the shadows as fast as his little legs can carry him.

* * *

"Alright." He hovers on the corner of the room. Selek wrestles just enough control to look up. All the creases in his neck shift with his swallow and Scotty shoves his hand in his pockets. "Let us be uh...blunt..."

"I require release," Selek whispers. "I am sorry. I would not ask this if it was not..."

"Forget all that," Scotty waves his hands, fully aware that they are running out of time. He's no doctor, but he can see by the state of Selek that he's not well. He might not want to bonk life back into the old codger, but that doesn't mean he's completely without a conscience. "Would...if I..."

He gestures uselessly in the direction of Selek.

"The physical..." He's struggling, and Scotty bits his lip, sympathetic. "...a hand would be adequate. But the mental..."

Mental. Right. Vulcans are telepaths. He's seen the porn.

Oh no.

Now he wished he _hadn't_ seen the porn.

But there's no desert, no pre!reform weapons or phoney ears or blatant cultural insensitivity.

Selek inhales as if in pain, a tear on his cheek.

Oh hell.

Oh, _fucking hell_ what has he to lose. He's a hardworking Starfleet engineer, a commanding officer. He wouldn't be worth his salt if he didn't have a dubious, kinky encounter on a backwater planet with a seething horny alien.

He is supposed to _help_ people.

Fine, get it over with. Like his Ma used to say. Rip off the plaster, face the music, pay the piper. All his small-minded discomfort isn't worth the death of a friend. Accomplice. Colleague. Hell, death isn't worth anybody.

God, Keenser better not be watching.

He's not dressed for it. Massive, battered coats and torn jeans are not gonna set the mood, but by the look of Selek, he doesn't care.

He gets on his knees. Freezing water soaks through his knees and makes him shiver, and his arse cramps for good measure. Selek's eyes are deep and dark and so pained Scotty's belly gripes in sympathy, and it's not from the recycled tack they call Starfleet issue protein nibs. He looks like his grandfather and oh no _abort abort abort._

"Ready." He says. Selek nods as if to convince himself, and his ancient fingers creep to his trousers, shaking lightly and Scotty takes a deep, deep breath. The buttons pop and -

It's green.

Focus, focus, focus.

It's green and it's big and by the looks of things, retractable.

_FOCUS._

_It's a piece of machinery_, he thinks. _Think of it like that. It's faulty and blocked, causing all this rattlin' in the pipes, and you need to unscrew it, and -_

_It's looking at me._

** _Focus, for fuck's sake._ **

Scotty spits on his hand, and with all the tact he can muster, palms him. It's thick and fleshy and warm and Selek groans like a dying man. Claws grip at Scotty's shoulders, tearing the coat down at the seams as he gropes at Scotty’s face and neck.

He’s never been with a man, let alone a Vulcan old enough to remember the first contact. Despite experimentation being the style of the century, Scotty is a boring standard grade heterosexual and the most adventure he’d ever had was a fondle with a girl who’d sported a red nose and puffed praying mantis eyes and that was only cos she’d had the flu.

Poor bloke deserves more than a slack handjob in the poorly heated pits of a Starfleet base.

“Oh, right.” Scotty nods. The old boy is bent over at the waist, massaging his wiry fingers on Scotty’s temple. “Yeah, okay. Whatever ye need.”

“I must…” He rasps. He creases his brow, puts his other hand on Scotty’s cheek. Must feel all the blood there, flaming under the skin. He flares his nostrils, looks down at Scotty, who wonders who he’s seeing in his place. “…must…feel…”

“Well,” Scotty clears his throat. “Feel away.”

Selek growls, a snatch of sound and Scotty tries to scramble away, only for the fingers to fix on his pressure points and _oh._

It must be some Vulcan mumbo jumbo, some kind of sex magic, for suddenly all this heat and anguish and damn _loneliness_ is crawling up his head and Scotty tears away, panting.

Selek whimpers and reaches for him again, and Scotty holds up his palm in a definite _stop._

Even if his other hand is still occupied with the alien dick.

“Go easy, alright?” He doesn’t snap, he won’t. He knows more than anyone what it's like to feel this pathetic, this small and useless, but he has limits, dammit. Selek’s eyes are twinkling with tears and all Scotty wants to do is bring him a cup of hot Horlicks. “Be gentle. One step at a time, cannee deal with it so fast.”

He waits for the moment to settle before he begrudgingly shifts back into place.

The fingers are back immediately, but softer. They caress across his hairline, feeling into place. It would feel nice if the situation was different. Selek presses his fingertips and their minds slot back together. Not easily, not like they are meant to do this, but they fit just enough, and Scotty hopes it _is_ enough because even when Selek is gentle, it’s intense.

Selek is barely holding his shields in place and Scotty remembers; _yeah, I better wank him now._

He bobs his fist back and forth and oh giddily god, he can feel it on himself, and from what he can feel, he’s doing a crap job of it. Selek groans as as the respectful distance of their minds begin to merge, control chipping and falling away.

He knows it is coming, for Selek is shaking like a leaf and oh –

Tendrils pulse in his brain, creeping down to his arm and resume control of his hand, which speeds and squeezes with an experience that _definitely _isn’t his.

He’s hard himself now, what a fucking surprise, red haze touching the corners of his sight and his head is back and his mouth is hanging open, and two dry, cool fingers slide into his mouth and he sucks them like a lollipop.

_What what what what_

Selek is smiling with his teeth, rare and affectionate and Scotty is no mind reader but he has this odd idea that in the Vulcan’s mind his face is replaced by another, and there’s this _face_ he can see, golden-eyed and dimple cheeked and far better looking than any bugger has any right to be –

The link surges and his mind tears through in white gold bliss, and he realises it's his body panging silly and that the front of his (thankfully) zipped jeans are spoilt and so is the state of his working hand.

Selek, sated (oh please be, _god_) is leant over, still stroking Scotty’s hair, murmuring sweetly, like a giant purring kitten and Scotty is trembling and spent and all ready to fall asleep in his lap.

He hadn’t heard the soft zap of the transporter, or maybe the judging eyes of the beagle now observing them cock eared wouldn’t be so disturbing. It’s enough to break the spell. The fingers slip from his mouth and tilt his chin. Scotty evades Selek’s eyes, reaches for a box of vintage Kleenex on the side and forces himself up.

“Sweet Mary,” He mutters, clearing his throat and seeing, much to his grief, that the Kleenex is stuck between his fingers. He turns away, modestly making his way to the sink. The silence settles like dust and the chair creaks as Selek turns it. _Say something._ “You alright, now?”

More silence. Scotty tucks his lower lip under his teeth.

“Yes.” A croak. “I am fine.”

“Good.” Scotty turns off the tap. Keenser must have had a point. Old age be thanked; a quick molest of his face and a shaky handjob had done the trick.

“I must…” Selek’s bones crack as he stands. Scotty budges up against the sink as the Vulcan approaches with hands behind his back. “…thank you for your actions.”

“Don’t mention it,” Scotty folds his hands back into his coat. _Yes please, don’t mention it. _“Cannee have ye dyin’ now can we?”

Selek looks at him for a long, long time.

* * *

If only Jim had blasted there three weeks earlier, could have saved him a lot of trouble.

Selek cannot take his attention off the lad, as if everything in his dim, cold world has been made right somehow, even if the wee boy be oblivious. Not to say Scotty can blame him, Kirk is certainly an “aye, aye Captain” kind of eye candy. He has an effortless luxe beauty, a bad boy Abercrombie model with melting baby blues, a pin-up for all lonely lady cadets everywhere.

Didn’t the man in his head – yeah, it was a man – have hazel eyes, though?

None of his business, not his worry. Selek addresses him as a friend, and Scotty finally gets his plans. This was the opportunity Selek was looking for. This cadet, whoever he is, is part of some grand destiny and Scotty shouldn’t care, because he’s just the plucky comic relief who fixes the machines, right?

He’s binge-watched enough late 20th century romcoms drunk with Keenser to know where his place in the world is. Maybe this whole thing is an enormous cosmic joke but then he feels a hitch because he realises Selek fully intends for him to go with Kirk and leave this forsaken ice ball behind. Not that he’s sorry for that, but it’s disconcerting. This Starfleet base has been his home for nearly a year and has seen some shit. Namely, that one time where he had to save the life of a wrinkly Vulcan by jacking him off.

But this comic relief has ears. Jim and Selek are talking lowly to each other, and Jim is calling him “Spock” and who in blue blazes is Spock?

He leaves Keenser behind for battleship with Selek, off to beam aboard a ship during warp with his new bestie.

He doesn’t notice the beagle until it’s too late.

* * *

A Scotsman, an Abercrombie model and a beagle walk into a bar.

Or a bridge.

He’s soaking wet, still choking up water, everything is on fire and a dog is pulling at his ankles. The mutt is beckoned away by a lieutenant with a ponytail like an oil slick. Her brows are drawn together in concern but her hands stroke along the dog’s haunches in comfort and Scotty for a moment forgets to breathe.

He must drag his eyes away for the Abercrombie model is stepping up to the other Abercrombie model, a Vulcan with eyebrows more perfectly primed than his mother’s. Jim calls him Spock and Scotty _just –_

It’s not Selek, that much for sure, the features are too set apart and the composure isn’t there, but he can believe it is some weird, warped form of him. If this is a porn star alternative universe, why does Scotty look like a bag of potatoes on lean legs, and _oh my god_ he jacked him off…

Don’tlookhimintheyedon’tlookhimintheeyedon’tlookhimintheye…

Spock looks him in the eye.

Fuck.

He’s babbling like an idiot, half tempted to challenge him to Battleship before Kirk steps in and replaces the belligerent sexual tension with some of his own.

Thank god.

* * *

Two years on, and the damn beagle is_ still_ sleeping on his bed and eating the ham from his sandwiches.

The adorable thief has sought sanctuary curled inside the crook of Nyota’s legs. She’s spread out on their bed, a book sprung open at the foot of it. He’d bought her one of these huge, arcane dictionaries for her birthday, a proper antique with colour plates between the parchment papers, all written in extinct dialects from ancient worlds. It cost his credits a pretty penny, and he owed several dubious Romulans a few favours, but it was worth it for the sheer euphoria on her face as she’d unwrapped it.

She’s reading it with all the relish of an Erotica, her bare feet kicked up behind her and her tongue playing behind her teeth as she silently spells out the words. Nugget the tribble is cooing on her shoulder (the tribble was beamed aboard with Keenser when the little freak was reinstated. Turned out the furball wasn’t frozen, but hibernating, and Scotty is _so_ grateful for the critter was a nice icebreaker with Nyota.)

They’re off duty, both of them. Well, all of them, if you count the beagle lazily licking the back of Nyota’s leg (Spock has banned him from the bridge.)

She idly pets Porthos’s head, still stuck in her book. Nugget rolls down her arm and squeaks, irritable. With her spare hand, she tickles him, eyes and mouth still forming entire narratives out of the words spiralled across the pages like separate galaxies.

And there he is, waxing poetic.

He feels a prickle in his head, tingling across to his temple and the corner of his eyes. Maybe it’s the sentiment of all of it, but everything around him is shimmering like the way the gas comes cascading out of the heating tanks, and Nyota and Nugget and Porthos are fading soft, like a dream.

He should be scared, but he’s not. He’s still there, in the room with his fiancée, can still feel the carpet curling beneath his toes and the jostle of Nyota’s laughter, but its as if he’s daydreaming very vividly.

_Flash_.

Selek, standing in the transporter beam in their old Starfleet base. He’s dressed in his ceremonial robes, looking older but no less regal, and he taps something into the computer and –

_Flash._

There’s a man somewhere, considerable age and weight on him, all dimpled and honey eyed, turning to smile –

_Flash._

They move past the light, into another world, and he knows it's _theirs_ and –

_Flash._

It’s gone.

He’s back in the room.

“Monty?” Nyota is scooting off the bed, gently ushering Porthos aside. Nugget, spoilt little rotter he is, squeaks indignantly. That’s Keenser’s fault, feeding him so much –

_“Monty.”_ Nyota could stop a ship with that look, that voice. She’s stopped so much; his heart is the top of that list. She’s gazing at him, squeezing his hands, and he realises he’s crying. The world is all blurring and it's not his brain, for now, it’s all empty, left. “What’s wrong?”

_He’s left._

“Oh, it be nothin’, lass.” He clasps her hand to his chest, kisses her forehead. “Just happy is all. Just so happy.”


End file.
